


Clothed in Sealace

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Episode: s02e14 Grace Under Pressure, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ocean didn't think or feel or want to reach out for what she'd lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothed in Sealace

The shadows contrasted sharply, grey valleys that rose and fell in patterns Rodney could predict if he really wanted to. The wind-gusts tended to swirl around this part of Atlantis with something almost like regularity and the curtains one of the botanists had hung were heavy enough that their movements had a definite set of parameters. He could sit there, watching the way darkness shifted and changed, bleeding over silvery-blue metal before receding like the ocean crashing just beyond the doorway.

Which would make him a coward.

Rodney knew that, really, he wasn't a coward. He wasn't _adventurous_ , and he had a very defined sense of who was less valuable than he was—just about everyone, with a few noteworthy exceptions—and what those less valuable people should be required to do, given their relatively worthless state. But he wasn't a coward. A coward would've stayed in his lab, safe on earth, working with simulations and mock-ups and never reaching beyond the comfortable boundaries of an armchair. Never truly confirming supposition into provable fact, because cowards weren't _practical_. They were theoretical, potentia in the abstract, and when they wanted details they bought or whined or bullied their way into getting it from other people.

Which was what made this all so very, very stupid. Irrational. _Illogical_. Lots of words that started with ‘I' and were negative and maybe he should go check the dictionary the linguists had brought just to see how many words could be applied. He was a genius with near-perfect memory, but languages weren't really his thing and he might have forgotten a few words that could be useful, and he really disliked not knowing everything about everything and—

Rodney closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.

Stupid. This was _stupid_. One foot in front of the other, that was all it would take. Escape from the comforting reassurance of sunlight mixed with the Atlantean equivalent of fluorescents, and head out onto the equally safe balcony that looked out over that dark, wrinkling mass of the ocean, almost twenty meters below. It couldn't even get him _wet_ at that distance, not that it was likely since the tide was in its ebb and there wasn't enough surf to create any kind of spray, let alone one capable of shooting up so high. All he had to do was go outside. Look around. Remind himself that he was perfectly fine, and that he'd continue to be perfectly fine—barring the Wraith and the next crisis of the hour, of course. 

He wasn't irrational enough, after all, to apply anthropomorphic tendencies like holding grudges, or being disappointed, to what was just a bunch of molecules that moved less than the air he breathed. The ocean didn't think or feel or want to reach out for what she'd lost. She— _it_ just was.

Gingerly, Rodney rubbed at his eyes. He was careful not to let his fingers brush against the three neat stitches that would probably encourage his hairline to recede even further. Thankfully, he'd won the argument with Carson about whether or not the doctor's ease during stitching was worth even a loonie-sized patch of Rodney's hair. It _wasn't_ , especially not when Carson was as shaggy as the sheep he continued to have an unnatural fondness for.

His head still ached a little. Not enough to interfere with day-to-day functions, but enough that if he moved too quickly he felt woozy and often had to sit down. That was why Carson had told him to take a day to rest, at least, and that traitor Radek had _locked him out of his own lab._

Oh, was Rodney going to make him regret that. He had plans he'd been working on in secret—backstabbing and retribution were ingrained in anyone who'd ever been in academia—and they were almost ready for implementation. It would just require a little more work, and then he'd remind Radek why _he_ was only Rodney's most capable assistant and not Chief Scientist.

Just ... later. After he did this. Which he would. Any minute now.

Getting to his feet, Rodney managed a whole three steps to stand in the arched entryway that led to the balcony. The sound of the waves was louder here, clever architecture acting as a sound-muffler when one was indoors. It was always something of a shock to come outside, like he'd just taken off headphones or unblocked his ears after making a way-too-quick descent. Rodney let the sound wash over him, trying to find the peace several therapists claimed could be found in the soft push and pull.

Nothing. No peace, just loud, annoying sound that made already scattered thoughts act like styrofoam pellets in front of a wind-machine, swirling into little cyclones of uselessness. How could someone possibly find soothing peace in something that never stopped, never shut up, never went _away_?

Hands clenched to white-knuckled fists, Rodney tried to convince himself that he'd get over this. He _had_ to—the grounding stations required bi-weekly maintenance and despite how most of his staff bitched, Rodney did most of those routine checks himself. He found it soothing to follow the familiar patterns, see lights and code trickle along within parameter. It was the closest thing he had to a hobby, really. The northern station was due for its check tomorrow and while Radek had said he'd do it, Rodney didn't want him to have to—particularly since that meant Rodney would have to check on the desalination machines instead, and that was a smelly, dirty, and boring job. Definitely something for Radek to do, leaving Rodney free to...

_Dammit._

Despite what he frequently claimed, Rodney knew his people worked almost as hard as he did. They didn't have the time to leave their very important, very necessary jobs. Since Rodney was in charge, it was _his_ job to pick up the slack. That's what the leader did. He took care of the things his people were too stupid or too busy to handle because if not, bad things happened.

Back on Earth, that meant losing his funding or being reprimanded. In rare cases, the apocalypse.

On Atlantis, it always meant injury and death. Even simple things. Milk-runs, just to make sure that everything was—

"How long have you been here?"

The words were soft, edges nappy instead of rough, but Rodney still jumped halfway out of his skin. "You totally enjoyed that," he accused, shock making him sound more vicious than he really felt.

"Only a little bit," Sheppard drawled, warm and rich like the hot toddy Rodney occasionally dreamed of. "So?"

"So, what? So you're an asshole who gets off on juvenile tricks most people out grow in high school? We already knew that." The silence ticked over and Rodney flushed. " _I_ knew that. Already. Me. All alone in my head, me."

The expected smirk never appeared. Sheppard leaned against the wall beside him, close enough that Rodney could feel his body-heat; instinctively Rodney moved closer—he was cold almost constantly, now. Nothing seemed to warm him up, no matter how many blankets he requisitioned or hand-warmers he stole and stashed around his room. 

Sheppard didn't comment when their shoulders brushed, and he didn't move away, either. Almost like an apology.

Rodney hadn't meant to let his fun trip to psychoville slip, but he'd been pretty delirious right after being rescued. Fast-forward to Carson _not_ being a stingy bastard and actually giving him the good drugs, and he and Sheppard had pulled out most of the story before Rodney had realized what they were doing. They'd kept it quiet, thankfully. Elizabeth knew, of course. Heightmeyer. Radek had enough details to make him dangerous, which was a vote in favor of only limited retribution. He didn't need all of Atlantis to know.

Sheppard leaned a little bit closer, graciously ignoring the noise Rodney made in reaction. "Hey. You wanna put away Doctor McKay for a minute and just talk to me?"

"There is nothing to talk about." If he were a stronger man, he'd push away from the wall and that delicious heat suffusing his right side until it made his skin prickle. Start pacing, since that'd be normal and familiar and expected. Instead, he concentrated on not sounding like he was whining. "Like a fair maiden in distress, I was injured, trapped, and then rescued. Since returning, I've been poked and prodded at by just about everyone I come across, including people who usually run in the opposite direction whenever I appear, and I infinitely preferred it when they were running and leaving me alone. I'd appreciate if you'd do the same."

"Riiight. Nothing at all to talk about," Sheppard teased, the grin as audible as the worry underneath, oil and vinegar sliding over skin. "So if you're all patched together now, Scarecrow, how come you're not in your labs?"

Rodney winced. "Zelenka's convinced Atlantis not to let me in. And he stole my laptop."

That actually produced a snort, Sheppard's body twitching so their hips bumped together. "All of them?" he asked, incredulous and probably just a little bit awed.

Rodney certainly was awed, when he wasn't busy being annoyed and plotting his revenge. "Yes, all of them! Conniving Czech bastard. Fortunately, he thinks I'm going to spend my time off coming up with ways to make him pay for his presumption. He doesn't know I've already got a few things in the works—I find lulling them into a false sense of security is highly effective." His dreamy, pleased expression should have convinced Sheppard that everything was fine—plotting someone's destruction was Rodney's equivalent of taking the 'jumper out for a spin, relaxing and rejuvenating. 

Instead, the exasperated smile never materialized, Sheppard's expression neutral enough that it was approaching on grim. "Really? That's pretty odd, isn't it. Usually he at least leaves you the one that has all the movies on it. You know," Sheppard continued, dawning wonder in his voice as if it had just occurred to him—because clearly Rodney was a _moron_ who'd fall for that—"he must be pretty worried about you, if he stole all of them."

 _And_ if Atlantis actually listened to him, since Radek didn't have the gene and had to work to make Atlantis understand his code, but Rodney didn't mention that. He knew Radek was worried. So was Elizabeth, and every other senior staff member who knew the details, and for the first time probably ever, that _didn't_ feel like Rodney was being given his due. Mostly it felt wrong, like he'd put on clothes that were too tight and washed with the wrong detergent.

To distract himself more than Sheppard, he snapped, "Is this the part where you put down that American Manly Cool you cling to and attempt to make me talk about my feelings? Because if so, Colonel, I suggest that you quit while you're ahead. There is—as I believe I've mentioned and since when do you require me to repeat things?— _nothing_ to talk about. I am fine. Please stop fumbling about like you actually give a—like you think you know what you're doing. You're very bad at this, and I'd appreciate it if you'd go away."

Nails dug crescents into his palms and Rodney was desperately grateful for the physical pain. He wanted to claim he didn't know why he'd almost said that, but it would be a lie. He knew it wasn't true with the same certainty he knew humans required oxygen to breathe—but some of Sheppard's buttons were highlighted with ten-foot-high neon and Rodney had never been able to resist pushing.

But the expected hiss of breath never came, nor the harsh castigation followed by storming away. Instead, Sheppard shifted enough that he could look over Rodney's shoulder. "It's a nice day out. Warm, not too hot."

Of all the—eyes wide, Rodney turned to look at Sheppard for the first time all conversation. "You're going to talk to me about the _weather_? That's it. You fail at everything. You are officially a moron. Please cease breathing my air right now."

One quirk of that amused, boyish smile, however, and the rest of the rant dried up—damn Sheppard for picking up on that correlation and then abusing it shamelessly. "Nice day to go stand out on the balcony," he continued, as if Rodney had said nothing at all. "Breathe the sea air, watch the waves. Much better than hovering in a doorway, I'd think."

"You hardly ever do. I've gotten used to it. Please don't start trying now."

"It'd be warmer, for one thing. There's a draft here, can you feel it? And you're pretty cold." Sheppard reached without warning, curling his fingers around Rodney's wrist. The hold was light, deceptively gentle, but even twisting and frantically pulling wouldn't break it—Sheppard let go when he wanted to, and not before. "See? You've got goosebumps all over, Rodney. Why don't we go out on the balcony? There're chairs already out there, and if you're good, I'll even bring you a cup of coffee."

Rodney closed his eyes, trying desperately to ignore the way his skin responded to Sheppard's, seeking rain after a drought, the summer sun after winter's chill. "Yes, because I'm known as someone who enjoys being outside without a pressing reason like, oh, _something to do_. Wonderful observation skills. Look, don't you have... things? Important away things, like catwalks to run on, or—or airmen to harass?"

"How long have you been out here, Rodney?"

The question was the equivalent of a right hook, perfectly delivered. The even tone, the hush that cradled the shape of the words—it took out Rodney's defenses, dominoing through sarcasm and insult and the usually-reliable hysteria until there was nothing left.

It was useless to fight. Rodney had known that, of course, but he'd always thought it was statistically improbable to find someone who could out-stubborn him. Sometimes he forgot that improbably rarely meant impossible. Slumping a tiny amount, he asked, "What time is it?"

"Almost fifteen hundred."

"Then sixty seven minutes. Give or take, since your response was woefully lacking in anything resembling specifics and I'm assuming that ‘almost' means fourteen fifty five. Are you done now?" He wasn't begging. It was just a trick of the wind that made it sound like he was.

"Not a chance." Sheppard's hand tightened and he tugged lightly; a warning, instead of a command. "Come on, Rodney, just sit outside with me. You know you'll feel better if you do."

"No. No, I can safely say that I don't think I will. Nausea may become a factor, I'm already light-headed enough from my head wound, and since lunch was positively disgusting today I didn't eat, and you know what I'm like when I don't eat, and have you _seen_ those so-called chairs that've been hobbled together? Most of them are what I'd call ‘precarious' if I were being _generous_ and I really don't need to fall and potentially re-injure my—"

The kiss was short and messy, Sheppard's mouth greedy as he swallowed the rest of the sentence and stole away Rodney's breath before more could be thought of. There was amusement laced into it, because he was always amused by Rodney's complaining, but when Sheppard finally pulled back his eyes were flat. "Come sit outside with me, Rodney."

"And suddenly I'm one of your stupid military grunts to order around? No." If he said it declaratively enough—and he wasn't sure he had, since his head was still reeling and his voice sounded strangely high-pitched—Rodney hoped it might counteract the implacable command in Sheppard's voice and touch.

Sheppard smirked, leaning his entire body over Rodney to kiss him again. "Rodney," he said, "I get it. I've been where you are, and we are _going_ to go sit outside in the sun like a couple of old men. Now."

Almost two years of actually deigning to do what this man told him had created habits Rodney really needed to break. Soon, because Rodney was already past the archway and onto the balcony, fingers laced with Sheppard's brushing against the oddly warm metal the Ancients made their railings with. Carefully, daring himself so that Sheppard wouldn't have to, Rodney opened his eyes to look out at the ocean.

Shadows slammed into him, so thick they went past black into the utter absence of light. Salt clung to his body, drying him like jerky despite water all around. He tried to cry out, shivering so hard his bones clacked together, but his throat filled with acrid-tasting liquid and he couldn't breathe. He was _drowning_ , sinking into greedy depths that knew how alone he was, knew he'd always _be_ alone. He wanted to break free, tried to, but his arms were weighted with lead, legs tangled, and it was going to keep him. It was _laughing_ at him, sliding into his mind to whisper the only eulogy he'd ever know—

 _"Hey!"_

Heat like a brand pressed into his face—hands? Those felt like fingers, like a palm against his cheek—keeping the seeping cold from taking everything.

"Rodney, c'mon, buddy, breathe. You're fine, just breathe!"

More heat against his body—shoulders and torso—and the hard shock of sitting on something that wasn't liquid, wasn't burying even as it swirled around him—chair?

"Dammit!" Sheppard's voice wasn't echoing like it should have, instead sandpaper rough, harsh like smoke inhaled too long, with a frantic edge of anger. "You are not having a panic attack, you are _manufacturing_ this so I'll stop and let you hide in your damned room, and there is no way I am letting you do that. _Breathe_ , Rodney! Bre—yeah. Yeah, that's right, good. It's okay, Rodney."

It wasn't okay. Hearing Sheppard speak like that was wildly uncharacteristic in almost every way and that, more than anything, shocked Rodney back into reality. He had one frantic moment to think _oh, thank god, no water_ before he really started processing the sight of Sheppard, crouched between Rodney's knees, his hands cupping Rodney's face while his thumbs rubbed familiar patterns. 

Rodney stared because while he had seen this before, it had never been out in the open. Never where doors couldn't lock.

Okay, so he'd chosen this particular place because it was off the beaten hallway, but the potential for observation existed. Anybody could glance in to see—and Sheppard didn't look like he cared one damned bit. He actually moved _closer_ , so he could pull Rodney down for another kiss.

The _third_ kiss. Also out in public, just like the first two had been. "Um?" Rodney said, intelligently.

Sheppard grinned, cupping the back of Rodney's neck to hold him steady. "See? You can breathe fine out here. There's no pressure, more than enough air, and hey—it's really a pretty day."

It was, actually. This sun was a little more golden in color than Sol was, hanging topaz and brilliant with all the reflected blues and greens to compliment it. The water looked so serene from this height, boundless as it slipped into the hazy distance. It was quiet, too, the rush of the ocean somehow dropping into background noise, heard but not listened to, a whispering metronome. Rodney forced himself to take in all of it, forced himself to stop being _stupid_ —and if he gripped Sheppard's wrists a little too tightly, well, he wasn't hearing any complaints.

Eventually, Sheppard moved to sit beside him, arm loose around Rodney's waist, looking out at the same vista. "See?" Anyone else would hear that slow, plantation drawl—patronizing without ever crossing the line—and completely miss out on the worry. "One tiny, insignificant panic-attack and you're fine again."

"Not fine." Rodney cleared his throat, trying to swallow away the film that suddenly deepened his voice. "I'm not—it's not that _simple_ for other people. It's not... " His voice trailed off, because really, what was he going to say? He _was_ fine sitting out here. Nothing was trying to hurt him—at that very moment, anyway—and it wasn't like the ocean was going to rise up to reclaim him, dragging him into frigid, blackened depths. That was irrationally self-pitying. "It's different."

This was different, too. Sitting like this, publicly private, and suddenly, Rodney felt warm.

"It's not the water, is it," Sheppard said. "It's not the lack of air. Well, not just either of those things."

Rodney wished for maybe half a second that Sheppard was as stupid as he pretended—he didn't need any help poking and prodding at his own wounds, thank you—but then that half a second was over, and Rodney mostly felt grateful that he wasn't going to have to say the words. 

"Oh, it is those things," he said, trying to make light. "Please, you know how phobic I am, Colonel. After spending several hours facing certain death in a dark, freezing, tiny little coffin of a box that rapidly filled with water that tasted like _crap_? I'd say that's pretty much the grandmother-approved recipe for creating new ones."

"Not Colonel. John."

Behind his eyes, Rodney studied whitening after-images; he'd never been very good at finding shapes in clouds. "We're in public."

" _John_." When the admonition was met with silence, he added, "I know she told you that we would. Repeatedly."

Rodney kept his eyes closed. He'd been granted the reprieve of not saying it, but hearing it was very nearly as bad. "Colonel Carter was a hallucination, John."

"Yeah, but she was a hallucination of the smart parts of you." There was a slight pause, waiting for a rejoinder, and when none came it didn't require open eyes to know John was scowling. "You know, the part that knew better than to try and blow yourself up too quickly, because we were _coming_ for you."

Rodney flinched.

John took his face again, turning Rodney away from the ocean he couldn't look at and waited until Rodney finally opened his eyes. "We were coming for you," John repeated. "We _came_ for you. I don't leave people behind, Rodney. I went after Sumner and I didn't even like the old bastard—did you think that I'd just abandon _you_?"

It was probably the most honest speech that John had ever made and it wasn't enough. Rodney didn't know how to let it be enough. He could feel his pulse banging against John's pinky finger, knew he was growing flushed and sweaty, and still unable to pull away. "It wasn't that," he said, desperately lying because it was the only way he knew how to run. "The greatest mind in Atlantis was trapped down there. I _do_ the rescuing, come up with the improbable solutions with seconds to spare, and I couldn't—"

John's eyes narrowed, face hardening into lines normally only the Genii ever saw. "Bullshit. This isn't about your ego, Rodney, and it never has been. You know Zelenka's nearly as smart as you and he's _almost_ as good at coming up with crazy solutions."

"Yes, almost! Almost means not quite, and not quite doesn't cut it when you're under _miles_ of ocean with a broken jumper and no air and a hallucination that keeps lying to you because that's all you have left!"

The sound John made was nearly a growl. "She never lied. _You_ never lied, Rodney, you knew your plan wouldn't work and you _knew_ we were coming for you. That I was!"

"No, I didn't!" The shout was loud enough that John released him, allowing Rodney to stumble to his feet and lean heavily against the railing. He didn't want to do this. "No," he repeated, forcing himself to sound clipped and annoyed. "I knew you'd try. Not everyone here completely hates me, and anyway you all need me to make sure Atlantis doesn't sink like I did, so I knew you'd try."

"But only the great Rodney McKay could succeed?"

Rodney's laugh ate at his throat like acid, bitter and dark when it finally met air. Below him, the water grew louder as the tides threw more volume against the edges of the city; he didn't look. "You just said this wasn't about my ego."

"I could be wrong!"

He wasn't, though. Rodney took a deep breath before asking, "How long did it take for you to think we'd abandoned you, in the time-dilation field? How long before you stopped wondering if we were dead, or injured, or captured, and if maybe we just forgot about you because, really, you weren't worth the time and effort. How could you be?"

John shoved right into his personal space, eyes paling to green with anger. "You already know that, because I _told_ you. I told you the night I got back how long it took before I stopped, which was _never_. I never stopped wondering and I never stopped waiting."

Moments like these broke people. Fortunately, Rodney was pretty certain he'd already shattered—and had long before he'd crashed into the ocean. "Do you think I don't know when you're lying, John? I'm bad with people. You aren't people."

John was almost vibrating with rage, his fingers digging bruises into Rodney's shoulder. "I wasn't lying," he gritted.

"No, but you weren't telling the whole truth. You started that first evening, John. I know that." He _had_ known that, from the moment he understood that John went through hours for every one of Rodney's minutes, and it had driven his frantic efforts. "But see, you still spent hours expecting us to come through for you. I didn't, okay? I don't think I even spent minutes doing that."

As distractions went, it probably wasn't a very good one. John knew him as well as Rodney claimed to know John, and could easily recognize the RF modules being tossed in his face. "So now we're playing ‘who's the better man'?"

Rodney opened his mouth, warming to the fight that kept both of them occupied—and found John laughing into it, curling around him to trap Rodney against heat and muscle and bone, more effectively than the weight of the ocean ever could. Their foreheads met, Teyla's custom seeping into theirs as dry and cool met feverishly sweaty, lips brushing together so _sweet_ —and Rodney deflated as if he'd been pin-pricked. All his jumbled, irrational emotions rushed out of him, caught by the wind and born away as he collapsed, a trembling, terrified mess on John's shoulder.

The one thing he never wanted to be.

John was stronger than his lean, spare frame suggested, easily bearing Rodney's weight. His arms were solid and unyielding as they wrapped around Rodney's back, tightly enough that breathing was something of an issue. Living warmth burned away the constant cold, melting muscles and releasing tension until only the outline of John's arms kept him together. The steady beat of John's heart drowned out the sound of ocean, the lowering, creaking sounds that haunted Rodney's nightmares, panicked breaths, and a calm, mothering voice that had been like nails on slate.

"What was it?" John's voice held a that rare, uncomfortably precious tenderness heretofore reserved for muffling blankets or hurt children. "It wasn't that we wouldn't look. Or that we'd abandon the search. You. What was it?"

It was the one question Rodney had truly run from. It had prompted him to close the door in John's face the night before, pushed him into fearing the wide, blue depths that surrounded him, convinced that he was what everyone claimed him to be—a sniveling, pathetic, fearful creature with no thought but personal glory. _No, that's about it: petty, arrogant, and bad with people._

"Other than depriving the world of my genius and condemning you all to Zelenka's pathetic attempts to keep the city running?"

John's hand was broad as he gripped the back of Rodney's neck, shaking him a little. "Hey. What _was_ it?"

Words had always protected him, even when they were turned against him, an impenetrable barrage of noise and sound that wrapped him up in a cocoon of his own making. He could fire them off like missiles, laser-precise and deadly, or use them as the support he never allowed himself to accept from others: a balm when he was sad, encouragement when weak, strength when he was terrified out of his mind, facing down a lunatic who'd kill him without qualm or a moment's regret.

He couldn't say anything at all, now.

He tried, though. He let the air rest heavy on his tongue, throat vibrating with a willingness to say _something_ , to coalesce the undefinable into recognizable syllables, patterns they both could understand. But no matter how he tried, no matter what faint noises he made, none were _words_. He'd choke on this answer before it ever let him go.

John made a shushing noise, gripping so tightly that Rodney's back popped in unexpected relief—and then tighter still. Their bodies were flush from neck to knee, heat and breath mixing together, one thigh pushed hard and unforgiving between Rodney's. It wasn't sex, although Rodney had every belief there'd be that, later on, particularly after denying them both the night before. No, this touch was _grounding_ , sensation too confused to be either pleasure or pain, but overwhelming enough that Rodney could focus on it: the burn of taut muscle riding hard against him; stubble scratching at eyelids and forehead as John held Rodney's face against his neck; the soft, rhythmic pressure of a belly rising to meet his own.

"You're so _stupid_ ," John whispered fiercely. "It wasn't going to happen. I would never let it happen."

Rodney had heard it, beneath the too-casual "Hey, buddy", the terror that he'd helped inspire. Long ago, before Atlantis and John, such worry would have made him preen, made him believe. Now it left him humbled, terrified, because the last thing he'd ever wanted was to be an ounce of pressure on shoulders that already bore too much.

"It could happen," Rondey rasped. "It probably _will_ happen to—"

And there was the proof that he really was as selfish as everyone claimed he was. He could feel the moment the penny dropped, when John finally understood not just the bits and pixels, but saw the whole, messy circle of whatever stupid image had been stamped on fragmented cardboard. Because the final piece, the very center, wasn't _me_. For the first time in his life, Rodney didn't give a damn what happened to himself. He cared what happened to _John_.

The word never materialized, but somehow John still knew—and _felt_. He breathed hard and wet against Rodney's neck, sound vibrating out from his body to Rodney's even as John bit down hard on the big tendon in Rodney's neck. "Stupid," he muttered again, abruptly moving, twisting them so Rodney slammed up against the wall, John fierce as he shoved, flattening Rodney between smooth metal and heaving chest. He was _writhing_ , thighs pressed hard between Rodney's, rocking to the frantic pulse of his own heart. The height difference, so negligible most of the time, gave him the advantage, crushing Rodney—so _good_ —as John panted, cool finally broken without streamers or fanfare, and god, that was good too, knowing John was just as ragged-raw and desperate.

"If you think," John growled, voice filling the spaces his body could not, "that that makes you different from every other person here, Rodney—not their families back home, the ones right _here_ —"

"But—"

"And _if you think_ you—we—didn't feel that way before we started doing this, from the very first moment I sat on that damned chair and fell down the rabbit hole—then you really _are_ as stupid as you were calling yourself before."

Rodney didn't ask how John knew how he'd been castigating himself—he'd probably heard the words through Atlantis' halls, piped directly for him alone, traitorous bitch that she was.

Good thing Rodney loved her almost as much as he loved the man squeezing the breath out of him.

"Is it worth it?" he asked. Not just John, who was still rubbing against him like he had to ground the words into Rodney's skin, tattooing them into permanence, but _Colonel Sheppard_ , who made certain the doors were locked, the lights were dim, and no one had any cause to ever doubt the ranking military officer or his chief scientist. "Is it?"

John's answer was a kiss with teeth, rough and sloppy, biting at Rodney's lips and tongue while his hips ground down until there was nothing but that awful edge of perfect, wondrous pain. Pulling back just enough, John rumbled, "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't."

Rodney _moaned_ , arching as much as he could while his body convulsed, release staining them both hot and wet; utterly, _completely_ unexpected. Dazed by the suddenness—he hadn't even known he was _hard_ —Rodney clung to John, whimpering slightly as he was shoved even more flat and breathless as they rode out the aftershocks together. Oh, god. _God_. Rodney wasn't released until his heart rate slowed, John no longer shoving but holding, pulling him close.

"Oh," Rodney said.

"Now," John said, smug, "we could have done this in your room, last night, where we could've both been naked, and comfortable." He released Rodney by degrees, allowing Rodney to fully collect himself each millimeter before giving just a fraction more. "Where there's a nice, handy shower to clean up in—or get dirty again. Whichever we felt like doing."

Rodney nodded dumbly. He knew John was teasing him, voice as rich and warm as the sun puddled around them, but the words didn't _mean_ teasing. They meant... something Rodney needed more brain-power to decode.

But that, it seemed, was expected, too. John waited until Rodney's weight was down on his own heels before tilting his head for another kiss—John spent a long time licking where his teeth had left swelling marks. "We could've done it then, but it wouldn't have meant as much," he concluded, placing a final kiss on the corner of Rodney's mouth. "Better?"

Over John's shoulder, Rodney could see the wide open space that led back to Atlantis and all the people that filled her. Any one of those people could've wandered by, and some of them might have while both of them— _both_ —were too lost in themselves to know or care. Meeting John's eyes, Rodney tried to find a hint that he cared about their discovery, that it was something to fret and worry over. To be ... scared of.

All he saw was brown and green and flecks of gold, pupils growing steady larger as Rodney breathed against his mouth.

"Yeah," he said. "Better. So can we _finally_ go back inside, now?"


End file.
